


i know we'll make it out of this one alive

by decadencethief



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-19
Updated: 2019-11-19
Packaged: 2021-02-13 09:08:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,129
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21491839
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/decadencethief/pseuds/decadencethief
Summary: Martin likes listening to Jon's voice. (TMA 160 spoilers)
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims
Comments: 5
Kudos: 163





	i know we'll make it out of this one alive

Martin used to enjoy open mic events, back when he had a life outside the Institute. There were several locales he used to frequent — bars whose events sold out weeks in advance, libraries, bookstores which the less confident writers gravitated to. He would often get there late, late hours at work or London’s nightmarish traffic only compounding his habitual tardiness, and the stage would be occupied by whichever up-and-coming poet had their turn.

He never seemed to disturb the audience’s rapt silence with his arrival.

He would find a spot at the back, perhaps order a longdrink if he felt particularly decadent, and turn his attention to the performance.

Surely enough, the quality of the poetry varied. But there was something about hearing it spoken, watching the reader get swept up in the rhythm of the words and follow them until he felt the emotion like a dull ache in his stomach, that made the experience so special to him.

It was the same feeling he gets when he listens to Jon read statements.

This one is about a house that was not a house. Jon sits back in his chair as he reads it, file in hand, soundlessly tapping his long fingers against the desk to the rhythm of his words. They’re as melodious as any poem, jagged with fear and confusion or smooth and velvet-soft in the lulls before the next horror.

_ “The hallway stretched on and on and on, like an invisible demon had grabbed reality by both ends and pulled them, stretching and twisting until all that was, all that had ever been, was a single empty hallway, and me in the middle of it.” _

Martin stepped in to return some papers, but he doesn’t know how long he’s spent by the door, the folder hanging limply at his side. Jon didn’t notice him come in, of course. Martin has no doubt that he could walk up to the desk and file the papers in their right slots without attracting any more attention, but he finds himself... enthralled. 

The windows have darkened hours ago, and Jon’s desk lamp is the only source of light in the room. Its sepia glow casts a crown around Jon’s head, but half of his face is shrouded by his hair. It reaches past his cheekbones now, much longer than it was a few months ago. 

It’s reassuring to know that Martin isn’t the only one who hasn’t gotten a haircut recently.

What is less reassuring, however, is his urge to brush the dark strands out of Jon’s face. He can’t help but wonder if they’re as soft as they look.

He pushes his hand in his pocket.

_ “I hadn’t been in that house since I was a kid, five or six, probably. My family moved a lot because of my mother’s work, and this was one of several homes we’d had on this side of the Pacific. What I only found out later, however, is that the house had been demolished in 1995.” _

Jon pauses for a moment to flip the page.

Martin uses the moment to slip out of the room. 

He can bring the papers later.

* * *

Several months later and a few hundred miles away, and Jon’s reading another statement.

Martin is still in bed, but Jon’s weight rolling off of the old mattress pulled him from his sleep some half hour ago. He could hear Jon’s footsteps across the small house, up to one of the bags they’d stored in the hallway, and him shuffling with the zipper until he’d taken something out.

For a moment, Martin was sure he would go read in another room, so he was surprised when he heard him walk back into the room. Jon paused at the door. Then, after a second’s hesitation, he tiptoed towards the armchair by the window, and sat down with a quiet sigh.

There was a rustling of paper, a soft, delicate cough as Jon cleared his throat, and then he began reading.

After a while, Martin shifted to his side to look at him.

His heart still swells, whenever he looks at his… boyfriend? They never had a proper conversation about their relationship status, exactly, but even though their shared history is ripe with misunderstanding, there’s only so much room for it after the events in the Panopticon. As far as first dates go, being saved from a spatial embodiment of the fear of loneliness in the midst of an eldritch ritual to instate him into a seat of omniscience, and then eloping to Scotland may be a bit unorthodox, but at least it got the point across. Martin thinks.

Plus, Jon lets him hold him every night they go to bed, and just as he’s crossing the line between wakefulness and sleep, he can feel rather than hear him murmur something against his skin.  _ I love you. _

Yes. They have not had the relationship talk, but as far as he’s concerned? They don’t need to.

In the comfortable, hazy cocoon of too many blankets (the heating in the cottage cannot keep up with Jon’s permanent state of being cold) and morning drowsiness, the words that Jon’s reading do not reach his brain. His voice washes over him, still raspy with sleep, but smooth, a constant ebb and flow that as entrancing as it ever has been. 

Martin couldn’t have imagined he could love a voice so much.

At length, he can tell Jon’s approaching the end of the statement. Martin slips out of bed and walks over to him.

Jon doesn’t notice him, and, as usual, he chooses to believe it’s because of how engrossed he is in his statement.

He prefers not to think about how… unnaturally quiet his movements are, sometimes. He learns to remind himself that his footfalls should make a sound against the floor.

_ “Statement ends.” _

Martin rests his hands on Jon’s shoulders.

He doesn’t startle. Instead, he tilts his head up to regard him curiously, the corners of his lips quirking up. His eyes shimmer as if there are embers under the corneas, for once warm instead of tired. He still looks chronically sleep deprived, but the razor-sharp contours of his face seem just a little softer. 

They’ve both been sleeping better.

“I’m sorry for waking you,” Jon murmurs.

Martin shushes him. “I like listening to you.”

Jon swallows. His eyes never leave Martin’s. “I—I didn’t… I don’t like leaving you all by yourself, after…” 

He trails off, but his words send a pang through him — love, and gratitude, and something he has no words for but that feels a whole lot like home.

He threads his fingers through Jon’s hair, smoothing it out of his face. Then, he leans down and kisses his forehead. “I’m here.”

**Author's Note:**

> i caught up on tma last week and since then i've been possessed by these two. they deserve softness and rest, and i like to think that they had Some time to enjoy each other's company before... yeah.
> 
> title's from left at london's revolution lover. 
> 
> find me on twitter [@decadencethief](https://twitter.com/decadencethief) and thank you for reading!


End file.
